


The Head that Wears the Crown

by ChuisPlusQueRien



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, No White Walkers, Slash, Slow Burn, Stark family feels, Tywin Lannister Being an Asshole, well as slow as I can manage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28991592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChuisPlusQueRien/pseuds/ChuisPlusQueRien
Summary: In which Joffrey Baratheon is not a hero or a villain, and he lets Ned Stark advise him.
Relationships: Joffrey Baratheon & Jaime Lannister, Joffrey Baratheon & Ned Stark
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	The Head that Wears the Crown

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s note: I am not an epic novel writer, so this world is lacking a lot of the original subplots and battles. This is an ALTERNATE UNIVERSE, where characters might have different personalities or have been cut from the story altogether. There are no white walkers, and magic is only briefly mentioned. Basically, I wanted Joffrey to be a sweet homosexual king.
> 
> I watched the TV series early 2020, but started reading the books as I was writing this... so the first chapter was written while I was reading book 1 (which I've finished now), and the second is being written while reading book 2. Basically I'm getting inspiration for shit as I go, but if you have any suggestion I can take them into account as I'm essentially pantsing this story.

CHAPTER I

_ Of Winterfell and Wolves _

Steel and wood clack together, a girl’s enraged voice raising above the din of Winterfell’s feasting.

Arya Stark swings her sword high. The chubby boy she’s fighting raises his wooden sword, scarcely blocking the blow as he cringes back. Arya’s small white face screws up, feet parting as she tightens her stance. 

Joffrey motions Lord Celgane to still. 

Black hair falls in front of Arya’s intelligent blue eyes. She pushes it back. “Stop cringing, Mycah, and fight!”

“I’m not as good as you, Lady Arya.” He shoves his sword forward, but she easily blocks the blow. 

Arya sighs as loud as a twelve-year-old can, lowering her weapon. “Mycah -”

“Maybe Justin will want to practice with you.”

Arya plops down onto the wet marsh, poking into the river reeds with her small metal sword. “I asked him weeks ago, and he said no.”

Mycah tiptoes towards her. “I’ll try again if you want me to.”

Her shoulders slump. “I’ll just find someone else.”

“Good afternoon, Lady Arya.” Joffrey steps out of the bush.

She stumbles to her feet, nearly falling in the water, and bows hastily. Mycah manages a deeper one, though his face is beet red.

Joffrey chokes back a laugh. Lord Clegane doesn’t withhold a smirk.

“Good afternoon, Prince.” Arya grits her teeth and hides her sword behind her back, rocking on her heels. 

“Perhaps I could practice with you?”

She blinks, hands dropping to her sides. “Our fathers think girls shouldn’t fight.”

“My father thinks a lot of things.” Joffrey outstretches his hand. 

Mycah pales, gives his wooden sword, and scurries away.

Joffrey twirls the weapon, getting a feel for its weight. 

Arya’s eyes brighten. She adjusts her feet, raising her sword into first position. “Don’t go easy on me.”

Joffrey smiles and waits for her to strike. 

She punches forward. Joffrey bats away the blow, stepping forward and flicking his stick under Arya’s hand. 

“Bloody hell.” Her blade falls into the river. She splashes in after it, eyes wide.

“I’m three years older than you.” It’s meant to be a consolation, but it comes out too stiff.

Arya huffs and climbs onto the riverside, her breeches dripping, molded against thin legs. “If my mother let me practice I’d be better than you!”

A snort is the closest Lord Clegane gets to a laugh.

“I think you would be.” Joffrey echoes Arya’s battle stance. “Remember to guard your body. You leave your chest open when you strike like that.”

Arya’s attacks are violent and quick, all earnest movements. She looks to his left before she strikes there, and he blocks easily.

“Joffrey!”

His shoulders fall. Arya hides her sword behind her back, and they both turn to Mother, who has a guard on each side and a raised brow.

Joffrey wishes he could be as scary as Mother can be with her eyebrows.

“Your Grace.” Arya curtsies with her hands behind her back. 

Mother gestures for them to climb up the hill. It’s hard to do so and look like any sort of royalty. Some sort of prickly plant has stuck itself on Joffrey’s trousers, pressing spikes into his skin. 

“You are both wanted at the feast.” Mother’s eyes slide down Arya’s dripping form. “In proper attire.”

“Yes mother.” Joffrey bends his head. 

A small white hand clutches around his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. Mother’s stares always seem like they reach into his _ soul _ . 

“Your father wishes for you to sit with Sansa Stark.”

“Yes mother.” Joffrey’s chin released, he turns to Arya, whose eyes are distant, watching a thrush burrow into the fall leaves. 

Mother’s stare levels into her. “Look at me, girl.”

Arya’s face twists into a scowl before she tries to flatten out her expression. “Your Grace?” 

“Get changed into girl’s clothes before you further embarrass your family.”

Red tinges along Arya’s cheeks and ears. “Yes, Your Grace,” she grits her teeth. 

Joffrey forces away the tightness in his chest. He hands Arya the wooden weapon.

“You are dismissed.”

Arya runs up the hill, a sword in each hand. Joffrey wishes he could follow. He offers his arm to Mother, as he’s expected to.

The silence drains. Sticks and leaves crack beneath their feet. The guards’ armor clinks and clanks with each movement. 

The air at Winterfell is crisp and sweet. It’s much easier to breathe here than at King’s Landing, where it smells of shit as soon as one leaves the castle. Joffrey shivers. 

“You should wear your cloak outside.” Mother says.

“It’s not cold when I’m sword-fighting.”

Mother’s grip tightens.

“But I’ll make sure to bring it next time.”

A sigh gathers in Joffrey’s chest. 

They enter through Winterfell’s gates, where four soldiers stand sentinel on either side, two Stark soldiers and two of the Kingsguard. The mens’ faces are impassive, though tightness hinges at each of their jaws. 

Joffrey would still prefer that job to the one that awaits him. 

“Sansa saved a seat for you.” Mother says, her hand grazing his jaw, thumb sweeping his cheekbone. 

Joffrey kisses her hand, then pushes his shoulders back. It’s time to do his duty. 

Two Kingsguard push open the doors to the dining hall, and Joffrey strides forward, like he  _ wants _ to be a prince, into the hall crammed with Stark bannermen and their lord.

The adults at one end of the lords’ table continue their feasting. Ned Stark’s face is grimly set, eyes fixed on Father as he gestures largely, his nose and ears a bright red.

Tommen and Myrcella sit at a kids’ table with a septa and the two youngest Stark boys.

Lady Sansa stands so quick she almost overturns her dinner plate. “My prince.” 

Joffrey takes her hand and presses a kiss to the top. “My lady, my apologies. I got distracted traversing the lovely grounds.”

She flushes. “I’m sure it’s not nearly as magnificent as the castle back home.”

“It has a different charm.” It’s nice when he can be honest while sounding as if he’s making nice. “May I sit?”

Her blue eyes widen. “You don’t need to ask, my prince.” 

Joffrey smiles as gently as he can. She’s only two years younger, yet her words don’t carry the same weight as someone like him. Sansa was raised in a different sort of palace, and she’s a girl - someone who gets to be protected from the world. 

He sits. Doesn’t flinch at the roar of raucous laughter coming from Father. “I was just by the river. What a lovely place.”

An expression flutters over Sansa’s face. Her eyes dance to Arya, who stands like an awkward ghost in the doorway, and then back to him. “My sister loves it there,” she says sharply. 

“I can see why.”

“I much prefer staying inside with my needlework.”

Joffrey takes a large bite so he doesn’t have to respond. 

Arya finally chooses a place to sit. She struggles with her stiff frock, plopping into a seat kitty corner from Sansa. The girls exchange glares. 

Arya’s fork slams into a large piece of meat, her hand wrapped around the utensils like it’s a dagger used for slaughter. She chews viciously, eyes sparkling. 

Sansa wrinkles her nose. 

Joffrey laughs. “You two don’t like each other very much.” 

Sansa’s eyes flash. She tries to coax her face into a smile. “I love my sister. Sorry, my prince.”

“What are you apologizing for?”

“I’m not usually so easy to distract.”

“You’re thirteen years of age.”

Sansa pushes her plate away. “That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be a good…” the word queen forms on her lips, “woman.” 

“I’m sure it’s very overwhelming, having so many people you don’t know in your home.” He covers her hand with his and gives it a squeeze. 

She flushes so deeply he fears she won’t be able to stay upright. “Most of them are lovely.” 

“I’m glad to hear that. Am I one of  _ most _ ?”

“Of course!”

Arya snorts, tugging at the sleeves hugging her small arms. She says through a bite of food, “she’s only saying that because you’re a prince.”

Sansa freezes.

Jon Snow, who had seemed engaged with the men’s conversation, turns to them. “Arya!” 

She shrugs, though her shoulders sneak upwards by her ears at the attention. 

“I’m sure your sister is being honest with me.” Joffrey says. “She seems like a genuine lady.”

“I’m never going to be a lady.” Arya spits.

Catelyn Stark and Mother cast glances from the other side of the table, but the men are making too much noise for the conversation to leak their way. This would be much more stressful if they could hear.

Jon Snow’s voice grows deeper and snappier, “the prince doesn’t want to hear that, Arya.”

“Will you be a knight instead?” Joffrey asks.

Arya nods frantically, stuffing the rest of her dinner in her mouth and pushing her plate away. “I train every day.” 

Jon’s hand rubs at his temple. His hair is raven black, eyes a sharp, intelligent blue. His jawline could cut glass. 

Joffrey forces himself to speak, though he’s paused for too long. “I’m sure you’ll be an amazing swordsperson.”

“Women can’t be knights.” Sansa carefully cuts her green beans.

“A woman fought in a tourney we had at King’s Landing a year ago. Her name is Brienne of Tarth, have you heard of her?”

Arya turns body and attention to him.

“She fought valiantly, and made it to 2nd place. She handled a sword better than most men I’ve seen. It was just her luck that the Mountain wanted to participate.”

Arya squirms in her chair. “See!” She says to Jon. 

Joffrey refuses to let his gaze flicker to Jon for too long. 

Sansa sighs. “She’s not always like this.” 

Arya piles her own plate a second time. The servant behind her sighs, moving on to serve Robb. What Joffrey would give for that kind of freedom - dismissing manners and social norms without fear of… everything. 

“So you enjoy needlework? What else do you enjoy doing?” He manages another bite. Northmen don’t seem to believe in spices. 

Sansa bites her bright red lip. “My friends and I practice our dancing and learn how to manage our future households.”

“Northern dances?”

“Oh and plenty of Southern ones too. My mother taught me.” Her eyes shine. 

At least there’s something interesting about her.

“You shall have to show me. I’ve taken many classes and still have very little skill.”

“I would be happy to!” She sits straighter in her chair, a smile glowing on her pale skin. She’s very beautiful when enthused. 

“A toast!” Father yells. He stands, knocking out the seat behind him. A large silver goblet raises in the air. “To the North and the South, allies for all the years of my reign!” He sways.

Ned Stark smiles small, though his eyes remain serious and piercing, flickering from one guest to another.

Uncle Jamie is positioned behind Father. His blank face, the male version of Mother’s, sweeps green eyes across the tables.

Joffrey raises his glasses with everyone else. This dinner would be a whole lot more bearable if he could drink as much as Father has. The dining hall’s air is heavy, filled with meat-smell and body odour.

“And to Ned Stark, my valiant friend and comrade. May your Sansa and my Joff make one another very happy!” 

Joffrey swallows down the knot in his throat, keeping his face from grimacing or his body from fleeing. Of course Father would announce an engagement at a feast without informing the betrothed first.

Mother glides from her chair to father’s, leveling him with a glare before sweeping out of the room. Lady Stark’s face glows. 

Father allows Ned Stark to put him back in his seat. 

“I didn’t know he was planning that.” Joffrey whispers to Sansa.

She shrugs, obviously trying to keep a smile from dimpling across her face. “It’s alright.”

“Prince Joffrey.” Rob Stark stands behind him, leaning a little too close. “I have heard much of your prowess with a sword. Would you be willing to engage with me in a duel?” A shark-like smile stretches across his lips.

It wasn’t like he was hungry anymore anyway. Joffrey allows a servant to take his plate. “Most willing.” He might lose, but at least he won’t have to be in this stupid dining hall anymore.

Rob gives a nod to his father as they pass by. Joffrey does the same. Father is much too enraptured with his own voice to pay much attention. Hopefully mother won’t murder him in his bed tonight.

Joffrey signals one of the southron servant boys forward and commands him to grab the sword from his quarters. The eleven-year-old Edwin bows and runs off.

Most of the Stark children have followed and taken positions along the walls of the courtyard. Night air fills Joffrey’s lungs. The smell of horse dung only slightly distracts.

Rob pulls his sword from its scabbard. His weapon is shining steel with a well-oiled leather handle. 

Edwin scampers forward with Joffrey’s, handing it over with a quick bow. 

“We fight until the other is disarmed.” Joffrey says.

Rob laughs without humour. “One might think you’re afraid of being hurt, Prince.”

“I thought this was a friendly duel?” Joffrey doesn’t think that at all. He’ll be lucky to get out of this without some form of injury.

“One cannot live in the North without the occasional… scrape.”

Jon Snow sighs loud enough to catch Rob’s attention. 

Rob glares at his brother, then twirls his sword around his body. “Ready?”

Joffrey bends into a bow. Usually the richer (more important, higher class) opponent bows last, but it’s best to show respect to the eldest brother of his betrothed.

Nostrils flared, Rob mimics him, then bends his knees and lowers his center of gravity.

Joffrey sucks in a breath and does the same. 

A smirk quirks Rob’s lips.

Joffrey will not strike first. A minute stretches out, seeming much longer as even the audience seems to have stopped moving.

Then Rob punches forward, swinging his blade over his head.

Joffrey blocks, a loud clang echoing through the courtyard. 

What follows is like a siege. Rob’s blows are heavy, and each time Joffrey defends his body rings, hands trying to force him to release his weapon.

“Go Prince Joffrey!” Arya yells.

Lord Rob’s jaw clenches. 

Joffrey digs his feet further into the ground. 

Where before it seemed like a siege, now Rob moves like flames, unpredictable, beautiful, strong. Swords crash against each other.

“You fight like 3 men.” Joffrey grits out, bouncing from foot to foot. Maybe if he keeps moving around Rob will eventually tire.

“And you fight like half of one.”

Joffrey snorts, then cringes as the next blow seems to reverberate through his spine. “As I am a man not fully grown -” he darts a couple of steps back - “that is understandable.”

“My sister deserves the world.”

“She will be given all of Westeros. Is that not enough?”

Rob’s next strike melds with a battle cry. Joffrey’s weapon flies out of his hands. Rob continues to swing. 

Joffrey dodges to the left, then to the right. “It is around the time where you should be named the winner.”   
  


“But you have not yet conceded.”

Joffrey somersaults through the dirt, snatching up his sword and trying to strike.

Rob smirks. He bats away blows like they are merely annoying bees. “Concede.”

“No.” Joffrey stabs forward.

The blow is blocked. “Concede.”

“No.”

Rob’s sword somehow finds its tip at Joffrey’s throat. “Concede.”

“Lord Rob Stark, our winner!” Joffrey hails, stepping back. 

The audience performs its duties with a thundering round of applause.

A nine-year-old with Lannister blonde hair smacks into Joffrey’s side. “You swung your sword lots.” She says, as if by consolation. 

Joffrey laughs, lifting the small-boned girl into his arms. “Thank you, Myrcella.”

Six-year-old Tommen wanders over, all chubby cheeks and blonde curls. His arms outstretch. 

One sibling in each arm, Joffrey makes his way back to the septa, ignoring the harsh words Rob Stark and Jon Snow exchange - without any subtlety - at the other end of the courtyard. 

“Father says I get a sword when we get back.” Tommen pokes at Joffrey’s collarbone.

“Look at you! And soon you’ll be winning tourneys and naming the Lady of Flowers.”

“Tommen thinks girls are gross.” Myrcella swings her feet in a way that has always meant ‘down.’ 

Joffrey returns her and Tommen gently to the dirt ground.

“Yeah! Gross!” 

Joffrey laughs, squatting down to Tommen’s height. “Well, my brother, you’ve many more years before you have to worry about marrying. I would enjoy it.”

o0o0o0o

“You don’t have to marry her. I can find someone else, a nice southern wife -”

“She’s sweet, Mother. It will be fine.”

Mother gestures her cupbearer forward. Her dainty hand massages the bridge of her nose. “He can’t spring this on us.”

“The King can do whatever he wants.” Joffrey taps at the armrests of his chair.

“Starks are  _ wild _ . Surely you want another girl -”

“The only better alliance I can imagine would be marriage to a Princess of Dorne.”

She knocks back the wine in one gulp. “I want you to be happy.”

“I could be content with Sansa. That’s all I wish for.”

Mother finally puts her wineglass down, leveling her gaze at him. “Is it?”

“It’s all I  _ can  _ wish for. You understand that. You wouldn’t have married Father if you were allowed to choose.”

Mother smiles small and bitter. “You sound much older than a boy of fifteen.”

“One cannot have a Baratheon and a Lannister as parents and become anything different.” Joffrey stands. The conversation is chipping away at all the pacivity he worked so hard to build. “I would like to sleep. That Robb Stark is certainly good with a sword.”

“You shouldn’t have agreed to duel.”

“I had to earn a bit of respect or the older brothers would cut my throat.”

Her eyes flash. Dainty hands seem much stronger when they’re wrapped around Joffrey’s shoulders. He and Mother see eye to eye, though maybe someday she won’t seem taller.

“You deserve the very best.” She says.

“I love you too.” 

Mother presses a kiss to his forehead. “Try to get some sleep.”

“I’ll do my best.” Joffrey steps into the hallway.

Uncle Jamie leans against the wall beside mother’s door, deep purple rivets carved underneath his eyes.

“Winterfell doesn’t seem to agree with you, Uncle.”

“We’ll be gone from here soon enough.” Uncle Jamie’s hand weighs down Joffrey’s shoulder. “That was some duel.”

“I did not let him win.”

“You’ve always been too honest.” Uncle sighs, finally releasing him. “I’m sure your grandfather would have something to say about the performance.”

“Just our luck, Grandfather isn’t here.”

A true smile crinkles the corners of Uncle’s eyes. “Until tomorrow.”

Joffrey nods and strides down the hallway, leaving Mother and Uncle to their loud voices. Most of their conversations start that way.

o0o0o0o

Ashy air fills his lungs. Metal clanks against stone at the other side of the room. The morning light is near blinding. Joffrey groans, swinging an arm over his eyes.

“Shall I pull the curtains, my prince?” Edwin stands from his work at the hearth, his work apron covered in soot.

“Leave them be. I should be getting up anyway.” Joffrey swings his feet over his bed.

Edwin’s large brown eyes blink, hands twitching. “Would you like me to call a servant?”

“I’ll be just fine this morning, Edwin. You can continue with the fireplace.”

Joffrey scrubs his eyes with his hands, cringing at the cold stone under bare feet. How do these Northerners manage?

He dresses slowly, ensuring each button is in the correct hole. A king should not rely on others more than they rely on him.

“Dammit.” A puff of ash rises in the air once more.

Joffrey coughs. “Are you having difficulties?”

Edwin’s eyes grow wide enough to swallow his face. His nose and forehead are covered in ash. “I’m sorry, my prince. I shall have to go ask one of the Northern servants for help.”

“The maid managed just fine yesterday. Is she indisposed?”

“She… forgot her duties this morning.”

Joffrey stalks forward. “Look at me, Edwin.”

Edwin’s chin lifts. 

“I am heir to the entirety of Westeros. Servants do not simply ‘forget’ to perform their duties when it is for me. What happened to Jess?”

A small Adam’s apple lowers and raises in a slow gulp.

“I do not harm messengers of unpleasant information.” Unlike my family.

“She’s entertaining your father.”

Joffrey stifles the scream building in his lungs. “Thank you for being honest with me.” He digs in the chest of drawers beside his bed. 

“Do you want me to get someone else to stoke the fire, my prince?”

His hand encloses around cold metal. He turns to Edwin, pressing the copper star coin into his hand. “I’m going out, but ensure there is a fire here before I return.”

Edwin’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. “Thank you!”

“You are dismissed.”

The Godswood’s air is lush. Flowers of purple and pink wind around wide trees with low hanging branches. Moss squishes beneath Joffrey’s boots. Lord Clegane trails behind. His silence is prized, especially for so big a man.

“Do you believe in the old gods, Clegane?”

The sworn shield snorts. “Don’t believe in no gods.” It was the expected answer. Joffrey has never seen his guardsman in a sept unless required to be.

He bends, trailing his fingers through the icy cold pool. His reflection stares back at him. 

Clegane’s armor jingles. His sword sings, drawn quick from its scabbard. “Show yourself!”

Joffrey straightens, hand reaching for his own weapon.

“Are  _ you _ a follower of the old gods?” Jon Snow appears from behind white-barked tree. The pool separates them, seeming much smaller than before.

Joffrey waves Clegane to stand down. 

“I believe my father used to be.”

“Not many of the Southern folk have anything but antipathy towards our ways.”

A smirk twists Joffrey’s lips. “You’re very well educated, for a bastard.”

Jon’s large hands clench, then forces his body to relax. “I shall leave you, my prince. Sorry for overstepping.”

“It wasn’t meant as an insult. I’m sure you’ve had to work much harder than your trueborn siblings to reach the same goals.”

Dark brows raise, crinkling Jon’s forehead. He crosses the pool on a fallen log, each step sure and graceful. “You don’t seem to be much like your family at all, my prince.”

“Is that meant as a compliment?” Of course it is. Nobody wants to be like Robert Baratheon or Cersei Lannister, not if they truly know them. 

Jon Snow nods. “If my sister must wed a Baratheon, I’m glad it’s you.” 

“I don’t believe your elder brother thinks the same.”

“He’ll get over it. She would grow an old maid if he could control it.”

Joffrey laughs. “You Starks are certainly interesting.” He sits on a large tree branch at waist height and waves Jon forward.

“Rob enjoyed the battle yesterday.”

“I’m sure he did. I’ll have to go home and train twice as hard as I did before.” Joffrey lets himself grimace.

“You don’t enjoy swordplay?”

Joffrey shrugs. “Do you?”

“I don’t enjoy murdering, but I enjoy the art of it.” 

“Do you know why my father is here?”

Jon stops swinging his legs. “I’ve heard rumours, but nothing else.”

“He’s going to ask Ned Stark to be his Hand.”

“My father will say no.”

“It’s not so much as asking but rather telling.”

Jon’s eyebrows attempt to collide. He turns to Joffrey. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want to know if you would come to King’s Landing.”

“I had plans -”

Joffrey scoots closer. “What could be better for your opportunities than King’s Landing? There are many men who might hire you, many women who would desire you.”

“And why does the prince care where the bastard of Winterfell ends up?”

“You’re beautiful and intelligent. Why would I want you to go to waste?”

Jon’s lips quirk. He pushes himself down from the tree branch. “I shall have to think on it.”

“As I thought. Just please do not steal my father’s thunder. He believes Ned Stark will be overjoyed to be asked.”

Jon laughs, loud and bright. “Alright.”

They descend from the tree. 

“I just noticed this tree has a face.” Joffrey says.

Jon’s humour bleeds from his face. “Most followers of the seven feel uncomfortable here.”

“It looks like it’s watching me.”

“Carved by the children of the forest, long ago.” Jon reaches out, as if to touch it. 

Joffrey snatches the arm. 

A small smile brightens Jon’s face. “Don’t worry, my prince. I’ll protect you.”

o0o0o0o

“Where have you been?” Mother whispers. “Your father wants to see you before he leaves for the hunting trip.”

“Out.”

Mother’s eyes flash. She links her elbow in his, half dragging him through the hall. “You can’t wander as freely here as at King’s Landing, my dear.”

“Lord Clegane never leaves my side.”

“I don’t want you to take too many unnecessary risks.” They halt in front of Father’s door, Ser Meryn on the left, and Uncle Jamie on the right.

“Yes mother.” Joffrey says. He’ll explore however much he wants, if it means he can talk to Arya Stark and Jon Snow without Mother’s spies and guards about.

Mother nods once, pressing a kiss to Joffrey’s forehead and shoving him forward. He pushes open the door.

“There you are, my boy.” Father’s still in bed, covered in robes and furs, a young red-haired servant girl sitting beside him. She feeds him a small handful of bacon, and he licks her fingers clean. “That should be enough, my dear. Attend to your other duties.”

Jess turns. Curtsies low. Strides to the door, face impassive. “It’s an honour to serve the king.”

Father’s grin turns his cheeks to apple. He pulls himself upright, a couple of his chins disappearing.

Joffrey controls his breathing.

“Don’t just stand there.” Father gestures to the seat Jess was in moments ago.

Joffrey inclines his head and does as bidden.

“I swear, you act more like smallfolk than royalty, half the time.”

“What did you wish to see me about, Father?”

Father gulps down a drink that is definitely not water from a golden goblet. “You understand what I meant, last night?”

“Lady Sansa and I are both aware of our duties.”

“Duties! Always you and the duties. Have some fun! She is quite the pretty thing, isn’t she?”

“I’ll have much enjoyment getting to know her, Father.”

“You won’t be able to get to know her quite as well as one would one of Baelish’s girls -”

“I will treat Lord Stark’s daughter with the utmost respect.”

Father’s guffaws ring Joffrey’s eardrums. “Who would have thought a son of mine would end up like you.”

Joffrey’s chest tightens.

“Take Sansa on a walk today. Pick her a flower or something.”

“Yes Father.” As if the man is a good source of relationship advice.

A walk with Sansa involves two hours filled with boredom, and a silent Northman guard who seems to enjoy looking at Lannisters as if they should be roasting on a stick. Lord Clegane’s silence is much preferred.

Sansa and Joffrey are nearly back at Winterfell. Their pace seems much too slow, but Joffrey keeps the polite smile planted on his face.

Arya Stark flies around the corner, little feet beating against the dusty ground. “Prince Joffrey!” She stutters to a stop, and dust flies about.

Sansa coughs violently. “Arya! What in the gods’ -”

“Prince Joffrey, you must come at once.”

A little messenger boy stops a couple of metres away, scowling at Arya, then turns around. 

Arya grabs Joffrey’s hand. Pulls him forward. He quickens his gait, but doesn’t allow her to pull him into a run.

“Our Fathers came back from the hunting trip too early. No one will tell me anything, but some of the adults looked too worried, and your mother was demanding you back.”

“Thank you for running to fetch me, Lady Arya.”

She snorts. 

Mother crushes Joffrey in her arms as soon as he appears through the doors. She releases him shortly, though her emotions still seem to be crushing his insides. Her emerald eyes ensure no cut or scratch has graced his body. “Have you heard?”

“Something happened during the hunt?”

She nods. Her eyes smile, though her face remains distraught. “An accident with a boar. The servants are collecting your things, we will leave in an hour.” 

“It’s not… it’s not bad, is it?”

“Your father has the best maesters in the kingdom at his beck and call.” Ned Stark strides towards them. His large calloused hand weighs down Joffrey’s shoulder. “I’ll be coming with you to King’s Landing. You should have nothing to fear.”

Joffrey has a strong urge to throw himself into a ravine. He steps back, shrugging off the hand. “If he dies I’ll be made king. It would be in your best interest to speak plainly to me.”

Mother’s eyes flash. 

A sad smile stretches across Lord Stark’s face. “A boar tusk pierced the king’s stomach, though it wasn’t deep. I’ve seen plenty of men live through worse injuries.”

“And plenty of men die of them, I’m sure.” Joffrey grits his teeth. Where this bravery and defiance came from, he’s not sure, but there’s a hurt like a heavy rock in his stomach, and he doesn’t know how to make it leave.

“Joffrey. Why don’t you make sure your horse has been seen to?” Mother says.

He stops himself from glaring at her. That would only have unfortunate consequences all around. “Yes mother.”

Joffrey strides towards the courtyard, Ser Clegane a silent ghost behind him. 

Horsie, so dubbed by a five-year-old Joffrey, is being brushed and saddled by the stablehand, a pale Northern boy with a sullen expression. The stables area buzz with action. Some horses seem to sense the stress of the servants, and use every available moment to snort and kick.

“Hello lovely.” Joffrey supplies Horsie with some grain. She licks his hand clean. “She needs to be ready in an hour.” 

“I’m aware, mi’lord.” mutters the stablehand. 

“I didn’t ask if you were aware; I was stating facts.” Joffrey steps towards the servant. “I would mind your tongue around princes,  _ boy _ .”

“Prince Joffrey!” Sansa calls, stepping quick to his side.

Joffrey tries to let his sigh out slowly. 

“I’ve heard the news. I should’ve come with you.”

Joffrey’s fingers deftly tighten the strings at the front of the stablehand’s shirt. “Finish with my horse.”

“Yes milord.” The servant bows low, jaw tight. 

“Lady Sansa, it was an overwhelming conversation in itself. I would not have wished you to be caught up in it.” He tucks a fiery red lock behind her ear.

She blushes prettily. “My father says the king could easily recover.”

“Men say many things.” 

A frown presses her forehead low. “You believe my father to tell falsehoods?”

May the gods send aid. “Are you sure your mother doesn’t have need of you?”

“She asked me to come ensure your health.” 

Arya swings down from the rafters, giggling when Sansa gasps. “Prince Joffrey is telling you to bugger off.”

“You should be with Septa Mordane, Arya.”   
  


Arya shakes her head, flinging strands of shoulder-length brown hair to and fro. “You never listen.”

“I don’t wish to hurt, my lady, but I have matters to attend to that do not concern you.” Joffrey says.

Sansa’s jaw tightens, then relaxes. She curtsies low. “Then I will see you later, my prince.”

Joffrey doesn’t want to be her prince. He doesn’t want to be anyone’s anything.

Arya steadfastly ignores Sansa’s gestures to get her to follow. When Sansa finally disappears around the corner, Arya takes Joffrey’s hand. “Come with me.”

“I’ve no wish for swordplay with you right now.”

The look she gives him scolds better than most septas. Joffrey keeps the smile off of his face. She leads him out into the courtyard, then up a dark stone passage. They pass a Northern servant girl on their way up. She inclines her head and continues a brisk pace.

“Where are we going?”

Arya continues to pull him through hallways and unused rooms, before they reach a familiar area. 

Ser Meryn and Ser Boros are stoic guards on each side of Father’s door. 

Father’s voice echoes through the hall, “stupid bloody fucking idiotic -” Something crashes in the room. 

The Kingsguard stir.

Father’s yelling continues, and they return to stone.

“We should return.” Joffrey says, though Arya doesn’t seem particularly abashed at the words pouring from behind the door.

Arya leads him back out the passageways. “Now you will teach me.”

“We are leaving in an hour.”

She chooses a clearing outside of Winterfell’s walls. Bounces on the balls of her feet and unsheathes Needle from her belt. “Then you better instruct quickly.”

Joffrey draws his sword. “Block my blows.”

Steel hits steel with a clang.

Arya’s eyes light up.

Fifteen minutes pass before she tries to parry, Joffrey beats Needle away so hard it flies out of Arya's hand. 

“And that is why we are learning defense.”

“Can’t we do both?” She stomps over to her sword.

“If you are facing an opponent much more skilled and strong, then you are very likely not to hit them. But if you defend and scream, someone might be able to come to your rescue.”

Arya scowls. “I don’t need anyone to rescue me.”

“Maybe in five or ten years with daily sword training, but that is still a time far away. I’ve been training for nearly ten years and would still run from most fights.”

“I’m not craven.” She shouts, before red seeps into her face. “I mean -”

Joffrey laughs. “Do you want to learn from the craven prince or not?”

She heaves a gust of wind from her nose. “Yes.”

“Then continue blocking my blows.”

They continue for what could be twenty minutes or thirty. Arya’s face screws up in concentration, though her strength begins to wane, sword hand slowly drifting down. 

“Prince Joffrey.” Bran Stark, an agile boy of nine, runs up to them. “Your mother is looking for you.”

“Thank you, Lord Stark.” Joffrey sheaths his sword. 

“Nobody else knew where to find you, but I saw Arya drag you off.”

Arya delivers a half-hearted punch to the boy’s shoulder, and he gives her a shove. 

The courtyard is fraught with panic. Servants scurry to a fro, packing items tightly into carts.

Mother, clad in a lovely green traveling gown, stands beside the front steps. Her presence doesn’t seem to help the servants’ stress level. Her eyes lock on Joffrey, and she waves him forward.

“I thought I told you to attend to your horse.”

“My horse was in perfectly good hands.”

“That Arya Stark is an irreverent little thing.” Mother lifts her chin, glaring at a servant so hard he trips and falls into the dust as if shot down by her thoughts.

“The Starks control the North.” 

Mother raises a brow.

“So the more of them that support the crowned prince, the less our chances of a future rebellion.”

“You believe a rebellion is coming?”

Joffrey shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not, but I’m going to make alliances with friendly people and children, and then the next generation might think me a True King, and not an Usurper.”

Mother’s hand squeezes tight around his arm. “Don’t you  _ ever _ speak that word in public.”

An ache squeezes Joffrey’s heart. He waits for her bruising grip to lessen.

Lord Stark approaches, and Mother finally releases the arm. 

“A little bit behind schedule, but we should manage to make it onto the road before afternoon light is out.”

Mother nods, then sweeps away towards the children and their septa. 

Joffrey rolls his shoulders, wishing also to escape Lord Stark’s penetrating stare. “Lord Stark?”

“Yes, my prince?”   
  


“Will Jon Snow be joining the party?”

Ned Stark raises a brow. “He has other matters to attend to.”

“And if I wish for him to join us?”

“Bastards are not treated well in King’s Landing.”

“If a bastard under the monarchy’s protection is not safe…” Joffrey gives the words a dangerous edge. “Your heir and two youngest will already be staying behind, so I’ve heard.”

“I can see there is not much chance for argument.” Ned Stark bows his head. “I will inform him.”

“Thank you. I know you do not have to follow any of my commands.”

The lord raises his hand as if to cover Joffrey’s shoulder, but seems to think better of it.

A servant with pink cheeks and heavy breathing flies down the stone steps. His eyes find Lord Stark, and he bolts forward. “My lord, the king demands your presence at once.”

Lord Stark strides quickly away. Joffrey follows.

“I don’t think you were included in the request, my prince.” Stark says.

They reach Father’s quarters. Stark turns to Joffrey, who leans against the stone wall and crosses his arms. 

Stark enters and shuts the door.

The hall is too quiet. Anywhere near Father is always loud, as if he needs to make noise to prove he’s alive. 

Joffrey sinks to the floor, ignoring the cold seeping into his body, though the stones are surprisingly warm for this far North. He won’t be moved. Something important is happening. 

Lord Clegane shifts from foot to foot, which he only does when he’s trying to convince himself to say something. 

“I’m fine.” Joffrey tells him.

“You should have a servant bring you a chair.”

“My bones are young enough to put up with it.” Joffrey hugs his knees to his chest. His stomach is twisted up like a Southern girl’s hairstyle.

A servant girl carrying a basket piled with towels scurries by, and the guards allow her entry. 

Joffrey stares at the wall, counting the individual stones until his eyes cross. It could be minutes or hours slipping by. It feels like an age.

A maester with a long jingling chain side-eyes him as he passes, but says nothing.

Joffrey cushions his head on his arms, staring at Father’s door until it blurs.

“Joffrey!” Uncle Jamie rushes forward. “Are you alright?”

“Fine. Just waiting.” Joffrey allows Uncle Jamie to pull him up and assess him. “Are you switching shifts?”

“Yes.” Light blue eyes flicker across his face. “You should go back to the hall. Everyone is gathering there.”

“Unless you’re going to command Lord Clegane to swing me over his shoulder, I’m staying here.”

Uncle Jamie sighs. “Lannisters are nothing if not stubborn.” He switches out Ser Boros, whispering something in his ear.

Joffrey returns to his position on the floor. An odd lethargy falls over his bones. He lets his eyelids drift shut, but keeps his ears alert. Something’s going to happen.  _ Please don’t let it happen. _

Ser Boros returns with a carved wood chair, the image of a direwolf on its back. Joffrey climbs onto it, but resumes his old position, hugging his knees to his chest. It isn’t very dignified, and it certainly isn’t manly. Joffrey couldn’t care any less.

The Maester exits.

Joffrey stands, stepping in front of him. 

“My Prince, I need to collect the queen.” The Maester bows his white head.

Something squeezes at Joffrey’s heart, and his breathing shortens. He steps around the Maester, then stares down the Kingsguard.

“Joff, perhaps you should wait.” Uncle Jamie whispers.

Joffrey flings the door open. 

Lord Stark hunches over in the chair at Father’s side. A pretty young maid sat there half a day ago.

Soft footsteps tread towards the bed. Father is silent and pale, hands folded over his chest, eyelids shut as if in sleep.

“Prince Joffrey -” Lord Stark stands. 

Joffrey stumbles forward. Father’s face is in permanent flush. His hand seeps cold into Joffrey’s skin. 

He plants himself on the bed. “Why couldn’t you have waited?” An urge to slap the husk that was Father nearly overtakes. 

“Joffrey, my love, go back to the hall.” Mother seems to fill the doorframe, golden hair shining in the afternoon light. Sometimes she’s an angel. “This does you no good.”

Joffrey extricates his hand from Father’s cold one. The room smells of sick and rot. Nausea climbs up his throat. “I had to see.”

“I know.” Mother’s eyes gleam. 

Joffrey takes her hand and lets her hold him close. He’s five years old again and has just fallen from the tree he was so determined to climb.

“Lord Stark, your maester will need to prepare the body to be taken to King’s Landing.”

“Of course, your grace.” Lord Stark’s face is stained with tears, though his voice is strong.

Mother’s heart beats strong, thumping against Joffrey’s ear. She leads him by the hand (warm and alive) to the dining hall. Lannister and Stark bannermen lift their heads to watch a tear slide down Mother’s cheek. 

Joffrey wishes to applaud.

Little Tommen bursts into tears after Mother explains the news. Myrcella climbs onto Joffrey’s lap and loops her arms around his neck, pressing her cold sniffling nose to his jugular. 

“I know you wish to be left to your grief…” Lord Stark slips into the seat across from them. “But I wished to inform you.” Here he nods to Mother and Joffrey. “That Robert’s last signed document appointed me to rule as regent until Joffrey reaches the age ten and seven.”

A small intake of breath and squeeze of Tommen are Mother’s reactions. She buries her face in Tommen’s golden curls. “Thank you for  _ notifying _ us.”

Lord Stark nods once more and returns to his family. 

It is agreed that the royal party will remain one more night, so after hearing many condolences and not as many tears, Joffrey climbs back into his bed, freshly made by Jess.

He’s a  _ king  _ now. They’re going to put him in history books and sing ballads about him, and the next few decades will decide whether or not those stories and songs will name him a tyrant or a god (or he could die two years into his reign, like Aegon II). 

Joffrey curls onto his side. His heartbeat pounds in his ears. He wipes sweaty hands on the blanket and contemplates suffocating himself with his own pillow. (It won’t work; he’s tried it before.)

Jumping to his feet, he tries to shake out the jitters. His heart continues to race. The bed is a place of torturous thinking, so Joffrey moves to the window instead, pulling open the shutters.

Cool wind washes over his face and pulls at his smallclothes. He props himself on the windowsill and lets the cold bleed into his bones. 

The courtyard is lit by slowly dimming torches, and sentinels slump against the walls. One pair of Lannister guards stand shoulder to shoulder, their jaws moving in dim light. Probably telling stories not fit for children’s ears. 

Joffrey is not a child anymore. He jolts, then rests his tired head back against the wall. It would be so nice to ban such thoughts from his brain and invite lovely dreams instead. 

He laughs, a barking sad thing. A couple of the guards stir, and then return to their stations. At least they’re alert. 

Bare feet move silently over the castle’s warm floor. Sansa says Winterfell was built on a hot spring. He drifts through the halls. Even if he knew where he was, he wouldn’t know where he’s going. 

He follows staircase after staircase, until the rock underneath his feet grows dusty. Where the used parts of the castle are well-kept and shining, this area is overgrown and crumbly.

A large window with a ledge overlooks the courtyard, much higher than Joffrey’s room. He curls up there. Ignores the spiders dangling from the webs close by. Cold night air scrapes his skin.

Something scuffs the floor.

Joffrey turns. 

Little Brandon Stark is shuffling through the hallway in his nightclothes, eyes dull and shoulders slumped.

“Hello.” Joffrey says.

Brandon doesn’t seem to hear, continuing to shuffle by. A sleepwalker. Of course.

Joffrey forces himself to stand. “ _ Little Stark _ …  _ Brandon. _ ” Words have no effect, even if they are spoken an inch away from Little Stark’s ear. He curls his fingers around Brandon’s shoulders and gives the boy a powerful shake. 

Brandon’s head knocks back at forth. He slumps like a doll, eyes blinking shut. 

Joffrey scarcely manages to catch him before he hits the ground. 

“Stupid little Starks.” He whispers, gathering the boy in his arms. It isn’t as if Joffrey deserves any peace after the day he’s had.

The many staircases of Winterfell are much more difficult to traverse with an eight-year-old boy in his arms. 

Joffrey grumbles to himself. Shifts Brandon’s weight as his own shoulders begin to burn. Soon enough he finds torchlight again.

Hopefully he can find an awake servant and pass over the responsibility. It’s not like Joffrey has any idea where little Stark sleeps. These corridors are confusing enough as it is. 

He rounds the hall where his own room is. Catelyn Stark and Lord Clegane stand outside of his door. 

“Bran!” Lady Stark bolts forward. She presses her hand to Little Stark’s forehead, brushing away the messy brown hair. 

“Found him sleepwalking near that high abandoned tower.” Joffrey tries to regain hold over Little Stark, who’s slowly slipping from his arms. “I’m going to need to put him down now.”

“I’ve got him.” Lady Stark outstretches her arms. 

Joffrey stares at her, but hands over the boy.

She takes him. Cradles Little Stark like a newborn. “Thank you.”

“I couldn’t exactly leave him there.”

Lady Stark hugs her child close. “I thank you all the same, Your Grace.” She inclines her head and strides away, barely hindered by the burden she carries.

Lord Clegane blocks Joffrey’s doorway. “Rest assured I’ve dealt with the guard’s errors, Your Grace.”

“What guard?” 

Lord Clegane’s lip curls. “Exactly.”

“Thank you, Clegane.”

Joffrey’s sworn shield inclines his head. While Joffrey appreciates being able to sneak off to be alone, he doubts it will happen again anytime soon. Uncle Jamie and Lord Clegane will quickly and efficiently root out bad guards.

When Joffrey’s head hits the pillow, he doesn’t expect to sleep, but his eyes slip shut all the same, tired brain and aching muscles sucking him away to dreamland. 

He wakes to sunlight branding his eyeballs. Hand flung over his face, Joffrey groans, turning over.

“ _ Son. _ ” A woman’s voice says. 

Joffrey jackknifes upwards, squinting at Mother, who’s sat primly on a wooden stool, one of her handmaidens stepping away from the curtains. His eyes burn. He blocks some of the rays with his hand.

Mother folds her hand in her lap. She’s sparkling with jewels, hair elaborately pulled in twists and braids around her head. Does she not sleep?

“Am I late?”

She laughs without humour. “Of course not, my love, but we have some things to discuss before we start the journey.”

Joffrey pushes himself up, leaning his back against the headboard. He tries to look attentive while blinking away sleep.

“What are your plans for the Kingsguard?”

“It hasn’t even been a day since Father died.”

Mother purses her lips. “You don’t have any idea what you wish to do? Is there anybody you’d want replaced?”

Joffrey shakes himself. “Kingsguard serve for life. Are you asking about Uncle Jamie?”

“Maybe you’d like to raise Jamie to the position of Lord Commander?”

“And what would Ser Barristan do? It would be cruel for me to take away his position without reason. His name still holds sway.”

“As King, you should surround yourself with people you trust. Ser Barristan has served under three rulers. Who knows whose side he is really on?”

Joffrey doesn’t want to stay in this bed, imprisoned by Mother’s words and her handmaidens’ eyes, so he flings himself out of bed and begins pulling his riding clothes from his trunk. “I’m not going to demote Ser Barristan without a reason. When I have the presence of mind, I will decide if anyone needs to be dismissed from the Kingsguard.”

“My love, sit down a moment and think about this -”

“This is exactly the moment I don’t  _ need _ to. It will take a moon to journey back to King’s Landing, that’s plenty of time for discussion and thought.”

Mother stands, her nose an inch from Joffrey’s. “I’ve been alive for more than two of your lifetimes, my love. It would do you good to listen.”

Joffrey sucks in a breath. “I will see you at breakfast.”

Mother’s eyes flash. She turns, her dress snapping behind her. The handmaidens scurry after.

Joffrey sits on his bed, rubs a palm over his quick-beating heart. That’s the most he’s ever stood up to Mother. He tries to get his breathing back under control. Sucks in a deep breath through his nose, holds it, releases it from his mouth. 

He’s supposed to be King now. Joffrey will have to lead Westeros. How is he supposed to do that if he can’t even argue with his own Mother without wanting to call a maester? 

“Weak boy.” says Grandfather’s voice in his head, the way he talks to Uncle Tyrion, disgusted and hateful, as if nothing worse could be than having a son with a deformity.

That’s what he thinks Joffrey is. 

Joffrey shakes his head, trying to brush away the thoughts. He pulls on his riding clothes. Gets out of the way so Jess can start packing the trunk..

There’s a long journey ahead, and Mother will surely want to speak many times before its end.


End file.
